FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Yellow, slimy tendrils, their color like something between piss and vegetable oil, thrust upward from below. They pierced the dry, red-brown earth, spreading cracks along the ground.

This was it: the evil god from below. The curse upon their tribal lands.

The twenty-some tigers clutched their spears in surprise. The less-experienced hunters screamed and fled. The more psychopathic among them threw their war-torches and lunged with their spears, piercing the flesh of the beast. The rising tendrils whipped about in response, their length and sheer number easily apprehending and restraining the torsos of those they scooped up. Before long the tigers were all being lifted from the ground.

Hunter Harimau was among them, watching it unfold in first person. His fear making him hesitate, neither rushing in nor fleeing for dear life.

Despite its oily-looking surface, the creature did not ignite from the thrown fire. The torches rolled away harmlessly, their flames shrinking as they got half-smothered against the dry grass.

The youthful tiger found himself surrounded, fear and anger vying for control of his brain. Three of the alien tentacles struck at him simultaneously, and he found himself hoisted by both legs upside down, his spear swatted from his grasp with ease before that third tendril constricted his arms against his sides.

He was lowered, with measured gradualness, toward what was left of his torch. The light flickering in his eyes. The heat on his face. He didn't feel right. He was getting closer and closer to it, the flames uncomfortable against his fur as his chest was held over them. Then he was moved in even closer, the scent of his fur starting to singe wafting up to his nostrils. He should look away from the fire, but it was so close and big, the light reflecting off his retinas. He saw himself in third person -- his transfixed face, his slackening arms and jaws, and the shameful erection he was developing. Bound, held dangerously close to the fire, his body reacting without his consent...

From behind him, he could see two more tendrils emerging and snaking up from the ground. These were narrower, yet they had visibly hollow points. As they curled over him, they flinched and seized like a pantomimed imitation of someone sneezing repeatedly, though there was no sound. Instead, there was a thin jetting of organic liquid -- translucent but dark, coating his back and putting a familiar scent on the air.

Kerosene. A term which the hunter should not have known. His face twisted in fright even as his member leaked precum.

The tentacles let go, sending him falling onto the torch. An instantaneous cloak of fire enveloped him, the heat and sound of it making him scream!

* * *

A gasp. A sudden sitting up.

Coolness. Darkness.

Safety.

Harimau "Harry" Pasir came to himself -- ran his hands over his chest in the lightnessness of his large bedroom, the covers still draped across his legs. Dark, no sun coming in through the windows yet. Checked his phone... 4:00 in the morning. That figured.

What a weird freakin' dream...

The muscular tiger tried to think back, beyond that final scene. It definitely had a storyline to it. He vaguely remembered it starting back at the tribe's village in the deep jungle. Prior to the earth-shaking that had signaled the monster's attack, things had been... normal? Like another life, lived out in his dreams.

Though... normal wasn't quite right. There was too much bulge-ogling, deliberate attention to scantily clad maleness, and so on. Thinking back, there had been a sexy theme to the dream long before the monster did its weird thing.

Thinking about it, it had been like something out of one of those old Savage Phantasies pornos -- the stuff nerds got off to, back in his uni days. The stuff they watched in order to imagine themselves as strong, interdependent people whose friendships were unshakable and whose erotic relationships were as steady as mountains.

Nerds, like Harry himself. He could still remember some of those cheesy things, with their B-movie-worthy sets and horrid dialogue. At the time he hadn't cared. All he'd cared about were the abs, relationship dynamics, and orgy-pleasured dicks... things he'd only wished he had, during those strange years when he kept his nose glued to those old CRT screens learning everything he could about computers.

After grumbling audibly for a few moments about stupid disruptions to his beauty sleep, he lay down and tried to drift off again.

The more he tried, the more the memory of the dream lingered and broadened in his mind.

That wasn't how dreams were supposed to work. They were supposed to fade, like the smoke after a pinched candle.

His tribe. The elder. The... one who looked like another him. That's right! There was another Harimau in the dream at one point. A version of him who seemed truly strong and not just "faking it until he made it." Harry had looked up to that guy, because in his heart of hearts Harry knew that he had been faking for close on fifteen years now. He was dying to know when the counterfeit jock he had been forcing himself to be all this time would finally become real.

Then... more images. Seemingly unrelated ones.

"Heh... I'd forgotten that for a moment," he mused aloud.

There had been this whole other part to the dream. One which sort of cut in and out with the tribal bits. In between sucking off "the better him" and being bukakke'd by his maybe-not-biological hunt-brothers -- how had he forgotten that? -- there had also been something about Teryx.

Harry sat up again and folded his arms. Now he was curious. His tail flicked back and forth between his legs, and he fidgeted with one thumb as if he were repeatedly tapping the button on a retractable inkpen -- an old force of habit for when he was "having a think" about something. Presently, he adjusted his position so that he sat on his knees and let his tail twitch behind him along the edge of the bed.

"That's right... Teryx was in it."

Teryx had been... in a shower with him? And they'd had some nice sex. Then... some bits from his work week? And something about having sex in a burning house. Kinky bondage sex with the fire licking at their heels. Teryx seemed pretty scared, the crybaby.

There it was again. That little "crybaby" sting at the end of the sentence was his inner critic passing judgment on... everything. Like it always did. Himself, others, it didn't matter. His wasn't even a snarker; by all indications it pretty much hated everyone and wanted everything to die.

Which was part of why the tribal dream had been so refreshing. He... hadn't really felt that, there, had he? There were all these people treating him roughly, abusing him a little... but they weren't bad-hearted about it. They had a point. They weren't needlessly destructive like his little head-voice always was.

He yawned. Gods, he was cerebral. Way too damn cerebral for how he tried to be. Fucking idiot.

He shook his head. Apparently his inner critic was annoyed at being left out. Maybe that was the elder-god-ish thing from the dream. Who knows...

Well, that was fine. It could go fuck itself and he could get started early on his day. He had a date with Teryx coming up...

Wait, no, that already happened.

...Didn't it?

Harry growled. His mind was currently not functioning right, and he hated that. People could accuse him of tons of things, but having a bad memory was not one of them. He prided himself on that.

"Gahhh, c'mon, brain. Wake the fuck up..." he grunted and bonked the side of his own head, evoking memories of being brutally beaten in a fistfight when he was younger. Yeah, yeah, whatever...

He got up -- turned on the lights. His kinky-ass bedroom came into full illumination. The bondage gear in the corner. The permanent attachment points for ropes along his bed. The hand-weight set which he pointedly left sitting out in one corner these days, in order to look messier and more of a musclehead than he felt like on the inside.

This monument to his faux-masculinity.

Faggot, his inner critic told him.

Sighing, he walked nude out of his bedroom and into his living room. Freaking Teryx. What had gone down between them? Last he could remember was them having sex, and then there was just nothing. He'd definitely gone to the dragon-slut's apartment for that...

It finally occurred to Harry to check the date on his phone. He felt a need to ground himself properly in time and really work this out.

"Holy raccoon-dog balls," he uttered.

It had been fully a week and two days since he went to see Teryx.

Seriously?

He checked his phone's calendar to be sure.

"What the..."

His visit to Teryx had indeed been nine days ago, just as he thought. What creeped him out was the series of normal-looking work notes and appointments on his calendar beyond that point. Some had already been there, but others... others he had to have added since then, because they were based on information he wouldn't have had until attending meetings that happened since Teryx's date-day...

"Uhh... okay."

Then, with perplexing suddenness, he couldn't keep tapping on his phone anymore.

He didn't drop the phone, nor go numb, nor anything else like that... but he couldn't choose to move the muscles. He remained there intensely idle, like an actor pretending to be frozen in time for an old-style sci-fi TV show.

Greetings, Harry.

The voice wasn't his nagging critic, thank goodness. Quite to the contrary, it sounded... similar to his own deliberate, ordinary verbal thinking. Almost deceptively so.

Uh... greetings?

Meanwhile, Harry's sense of analysis was already running: This didn't feel terrifying, and that felt wrong. Paralysis was always supposed to feel terrifying. What the hell was happening to him and why wasn't he scared?

You wanted to become a better you. I'm here to provide that. I made some mistakes at first due to not knowing you well enough, but with time I think I can understand. I can create the better you. The you who won't treat "you" badly anymore, Harry... because you'll be perfect and acceptable, even to your own otherwise impossible standards.

Harry replied, though with an oddly blunted affect: No, this isn't me. I'm not schizophrenic; I don't hear no stinkin' voices in my head, not like this...

The him-voice would hear none of that: You talk to yourself all the time, Harry. I know.

Harry refused to be swayed. Get out of my head then... what are you, some spirit trying to possess me?

The voice chuckled -- and sidestepped his question with two of its own. Isn't it strange indeed that you feel no fear? That you can't even light the instinctive torch of superstition in order to rouse your primitive emotions against me?

Get out of my head. So help me, I'll fight you and force you out. I'm not playing.

Harry wasn't mustering up the emotions commensurate with those words. He was feeling more and more passive as he continued with his threats.

Hahaha... but you are playing, Harry. You're no one. You know it, and I know it. You've been "playing" your whole adult life. Playing a game that everyone takes as real, because to your credit you play it very well.

Go. Now.

"Mmm, yes, now that is anger that I feel... and anger is one of the things that makes 'Harry' feel good."

Feeling his mouth move and his words speak against his will was surreal... and yet so familiar.

"Don't believe me?" his voice rumbled aloud. "Just remember sparring with your largest 'tribe-brother,' the albino one... remember the fury you felt when he rubbed your face in the mud after overpowering you and pushing you down. Remember how unfair it felt that he was still so much stronger... and remember how hard you got as you slipped free of his hands, rose from the mud, and smashed your fist against his forehead. You sick, destructive, violent cat~"

Just like that, the memories had come rushing back... and so had the associated arousal. He could remember the taste of it... the gross mud in his mouth, and how he had spat it out. Just like falling in that one ditch when he was younger.

That dream had felt so real that it hurt. It had been so long, so involved...

If it even was one dream. That was a lot of missing days...

Now, his cock was so hard so suddenly that it almost hurt from the sheer pressure of the blood flow.

"Long, hard, and proud. This is how Harry feels alive. This is how Harry feeds his master."

Harry's internal voice went silent while his mouth spoke on and on. Hearing it was making him feel a bizarre mix of... everything. His emotions were a blur, yet his inner critic was on a sabbatical.

"I'm your owner now, Harry. I rule you. This flesh belongs to me. I take away the pain and give you good things instead. You don't fear me, because you already know me... and you already know what you must say."

The words poured out from Harry's mind almost automatically. Almost. There was the slightest moment in which he could've slowed the reaction by force of will... but it was already such a deep-seated groove in his mind that he gave up and let it happen.

Yes, Sir...

"Heheheh... that's right. Tell me again, Harry. Tell me how you agree to the will of your owner."

Yes, Sir...

"Hah, that's right again! You're such a fun little man, so small inside but so big on the outside... but not to worry. 'Sir Harry' is here to be the better you... the dark, lusty knight that you always wished you were. Let's keep making Sir Harry stronger and you weaker and more degraded. You'd like that wouldn't you? Feeding someone who deserves to be alive. Someone with a greater worth than your negative value."

His member twitched and drooled. He recalled the moment at the end of the dream. The horrifying immolation and the dancing light of the flame.

"You're a naughty kitty. You built all this manliness on such a broken foundation. A foundation with a writhing monster underneath. You should give up and let someone confident make you better."

Harry became suddenly aware that he had control of his right hand again. Only that hand.

The left reached over and took the phone out of the right.

"Feed me, Harry," the voice in control of his mouth commanded.

Harry was about to ask how, but he already knew. He knew that he must move his hand down to his cock and start masturbating. He must think of everything that aroused him. He must imagine the lewdest, kinkiest things he could. He must edge himself. He must think of all of the unacceptable things that secretly drove his arousal higher. He must think of being used roughly, even beaten. He must think of burning his office building down while fucking a hole into a lifesized poster of his boss and ejaculating onto the boss's real face which was just behind it. He must become sex. He must become orgasm.

He was useless. A worthless, dumb, faggot kitty, except for one purpose. This one thing in all the world he could do. He could feed Sir Harry, his much better counterpart.

His hand was already stroking. How would he resist? He must do what Sir commanded, he must...

"Mmm, good cat... swell up to your limits and feed me... exercise these fluffy balls of 'ours'... oh, who am I kidding? They're mine, like every other inch of this vessel."

Harry found it difficult to feel any emotions other than those associated with pleasant subservience... but, all the same, he chose to stop himself from masturbating.

No way, he replied. You gotta... get out of my head. You're in my head, but I can still fight back. You gave me control of my hand.

"Haha, so you're learning to resist? If you try, you'll break like a twig..." His tail was swishing as if he wanted it.

You won't break me like a twig. You need me... whatever you are, you're hungry, and the only way I can fight you is to not do what you want. I remember that, now...

"You remember what I want you to remember, Harry. I thoroughly own you."

Paw me off yourself then.

"Haha, well, since you asked so nicely, perhaps I will. Perhaps I'll ensure that you suffer again, as you have in my created scenarios. Your pleasure only grows when you suffer for a time... and I believe you will notice that your pleasure is my food."

Stroke, stroke, stroke...

Through the haze of submissive emotion, Harry resisted. Something in him... his gut told him he couldn't trust this guy. Maybe his inner critic wasn't totally silent after all. Maybe it was telling him this "Sir" guy was a shithead just like everyone else. Maybe it...

Fwap, fap, fap...

His hand moving on its own. Unable to stop. His own body a puppet for this inner molestation. Memories flickering of real bullies shoving his face in the dirt when he was younger. That bigger white tiger from his secondary school. Then that transitioning into the image of the dreamed tribe hazing him with fire and with spears and with bondage. The feeling of his trapped, raging boner behind a tight skirt of reeds. Heavy white-furred balls on his face, the musk of the larger tiger's sheath on his nostrils. A middle-aged, mythologized take on that bullying scenario, and he loved it... it made him so goddamn hard.

Fwip, fip, fap, fap...

Ahhhh, g-ghh...

"Mmm, that's right. Feel it course through your groin, and teasing all of these overdeveloped muscles... you certainly never neglected your kegel exercises in sculpting your body into something you considered worthy of worship."

Fwip, fip, fwap...

The pleasure was growing impossibly fast. Rushing up to the peak, as if a bullet train was what was climbing the metaphorical mountain of sexual pleasure.

Fwip, fwip, fwip...

"I'm your ruler. Your king. Your mind-flayer. You timid, horny nerd..."

NGGHH!!

He was there. He was right there. It was unbelievable how much and how fast it was all coming to a head. Just a few more strokes and he'd be done, his load would go flying right onto his carpet...

But then when the climax hit, it kind of... didn't.

His body flexed and spasmed... partially. His hand even kept stroking his shaft, and his voice kept up the instinctive grunts and growls that were common to his climactic moments. Yet it somehow... didn't all come together. Some of the pleasure was missing... he couldn't directly experience it himself. Absent, too, was any proper ejaculation. He felt just enough pleasure for it to be irritating, for him to crave more stimulation... to need to go over the edge...

Then the hand stopped working, and Harry had conscious control of it again.

"I'll let you cum, Harry, if only you'll do it yourself while addressing me as you should."

No... this isn't right. You're a fucked-up monster!

"I'm the boogeyman in the back of your mind, Harry... but I am also the hero, the angel, the rescuer. I'm everything you know is strong... and you are everything you know to be weak. Prove your weakness now, Harry. Stroke yourself and cum."

No!

"Heheh... and so the cycle begins again. I wonder how many times you will take before you break?"

Again the hand moved without his choice. Again he felt the nerves crackle with rising bliss, and heard the sound of his hand on his meat.

His eyes looked down at his body. So imperfect. Almost ugly still, by his hideously unfair standards. People would kill to look like him, but it still wasn't right. He needed...

"Heheh... getting even hornier off of loathing yourself?"

Shut up... it isn't yours to judge.

"Hypocrite."

You're not me. You're a faker. You're faker than fake... nghh...!

"Mmm, quite a spark you've got in you, Harry... guess we'll have to keep going and going~"

NGGHHH... I'll never...

"You will. You have. Again and again. Feed me, Harry. Feed me and let your mind kneel in my service."

Yes, s--NO.

"Heheh... right on the edge again... ahhh~!" He licked his lips as the denied ejaculation arrived again. "Mmm, scrumptious. Keep giving me more, Harry. You can't win, because your opponent is you."

Rrrrgh... you don't deserve to say that...

"Yet by the end you'll agree. You always do. Every time, Hunter."

The word did bad things to his mindset. It eroded him. Sent him careening toward the headspace of his dreams, where he was always called by his title within the group. Meek and unsure, compared to the buff and confident men around him. Unable even to bravely lunge and throw himself at the eldritch beast in vain. Caught in its coils, unable to escape...

Fwap, fap, fap, fap...

The forced pawing continued, this time without active resistance from the tiger.

"Time to milk my tiger-cow until he feeds me all that I desire. I'm your chieftain, Hunter, and you won't cum until I'm satisfied."

A flashback ensued: his nostrils nudging inside the chief of the tribe's elder -- his tongue working at it, coaxing it back, causing its prickly length to emerge. The elder giving a speech before the rest of the group, commenting on movements from their rival tribe, the Sharpspines, in the lands to the east. Harry listening but not caring, feeling dumb and slutty -- taking his superior's cock into his big, dumb mouth and suckling, like a new hunter should.

Harry's mind felt broken... weird, and confused. He resisted, yet he knew he was a failure. A loser. Already pinned by the manipulating tendrils of a beast he couldn't see.

Struggling to come up with anything to say in defiance, Harry thought at the threat within his body: Feed on me all you want... I'll never help you...

His voice said deeply and with suave ease, "You already are, and you're doing such a good, delicious job."

Fwap, fwip, fwip, fwip, fwip~

Hrrrrnnnrrrr...

So it would continue, on and on, for hours, until long after the sun came up. One taunt blending into the next, the tiger's passivity growing. Coming to identify with the fact his hand moved on its own, that he needed to paw. He must paw; he was good kitty. A good, if useless, hunter. Good for sucking the cocks of his superiors and bending over to be filled with every dick imaginable. Tied up for free use, with the torchlights over him, their flames flickering enticingly while the elder filled his rear and called over all the others to enjoy it too.

He was such a dumb, stupid, faggy kitty and he needed to be a slut for the tribe, because he had no other use.

Then he felt his better twin take hold -- caressing his sides and stroking his shoulders. A mewling sound of submission elicited -- the urge to be filled by this person who was by all rights and reasons strictly better than him. There was nothing, absolutely nothing about him that wasn't just better...

"Feels good, doesn't it, Hunter?" Sir Harry asked him while spreading his cheeks wide -- thick erection plumbing that soaked hole, proudly preparing to add yet another load to the sloppy cum-pipe it had become.

If it feels good to you... Harry answered meekly. Sinking into the role. Feeling the twisted pleasure of a better him continuing to degrade and brag over him. Feeling those muscled legs pressing against his. The deepening. The tail-raising pleasure. The erotic way his stronger self folded a hand around the front of his neck and stroked up under his chin -- then down across his pecs. Giving him value by virtue of Sir's value.

"You know what will feel good," whispered Sir while hilting and steadily, slowly humping.

Harry looked down. He saw his big cock drooling everywhere. He saw that his arms weren't bound anymore.

He had to touch it. He had to make it cum. It was important.

With a single downward stroke from tip to base, Harry pushed himself over the edge. He ejaculated his pent-up load and his dignity in one climactic rush, growling and mrowling as the better him enjoyed the way it made that ass clench up around him, the rhythmic contractions stroking his cock.

Then Sir Harry pulled out uncaringly, not even deeming him worthy of a finish. Harry slumped forward, twitching and writhing, the finish making his pleasure centers rocket into the stratosphere while his frail, mortal self remained behind.

Sir Harry moved on casually, leaving his flimsy counterpart a mess on the ground. Cum-soaked erection out, he grabbed one of the other hunters and kissed him, before bending him over and starting to fuck, pointedly calling him, "Much worthier than that slut over there."

Harry, his personality melting in the afterglow, could only soak up the abuse, feeling it add to the hum in his mind. Slut kitty hunter... that was him. He was the most slut. The most useless and cum-needy. Sir was much... much... better. At being Harry.

The world of the village spun, the image of it flickering and distorting until it looked like the palely sunlit ceiling of Harry's bedroom. Eyes open, staring upward. Cum all over his chest and his nose. The afterglow prolonged, yet dulled somehow.

He could feel the weight of the parasite inside. Feeding. Enjoying. Silently laughing at him as it used him for his juices.

Don't worry, Hunter, the voice cooed internally. You're making someone much better have a good time of things.

The thought made him feel that same glow of worth again. Worth defined only by how much good he was for the slug. The thing inhabiting his brain.

That was right. It was there. Inside him.

He shivered and drooled, his pleasure on the wane. He reached his fingers over his torso and smeared his cum across them.

He sniffed it, lewdly reimagining it as Sir's, before sighing and shutting his eyes. A deadened warmth came over him, sleep seeming to take him. A fading voice encouraging the shift:

Good kitty. Sleep. It's time for Sir Harry to start his day...